


Wanderlust

by TheNerdGlaze



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, It's just really sad, Unromantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:38:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNerdGlaze/pseuds/TheNerdGlaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prostitute's encounter with a very young Tyrion</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanderlust

I dreamt about the ship again. I dream about it since I was little.

I dream I'm on a ship, that runs fast on the sea. The wind is in my hair, and I can smell the brackish water. I don't know exactly where it's taking me, but I know it's some place far away and mysterious.

The sea has always been there, in all my memories, blue or green or grey depending on the day, but always huge and full of promises.

People come and go from the sea, different people but all the same in their way.

Since I was a child, I look at ships sailing to Braavos, Pentos or Dorne, and I dream about sailing on one of them, too.

Sod's law, I never got out of Lannisport in my life.

I started working when I was very young. The world's oldest profession, they call it.

It's a hard life, but there's worse.

Well, I admit I've had some very rough days, and some clients, seven hells, I'd rather see the back of them, but I still believe I'm lucky, compared to the campfollowers. That's really tough.

Or peasants. Although in the songs country life is always simple and romantic, there's nothing poetic about breaking your back every single day in the fields and risking to die starving during the long winters, I assure you.

At least I have my room, with my featherbed and my window full of flowers. I have some nice dress and even a jewel or two. The place where I work is quite expensive, so our clients are usually merchants. My favourite moment of the day is the morning, when they all go away and I have breakfast with the other girls, before going to sleep. There's a strange satisfaction in mocking the night's clients. Actually, it's our favourite activity.

So, in short, there's a lot of good sides, really. And you get used to everything, eventually. At least, I think.

For example, the moon tea: I used not to be very careful about it.

I take it everyday, I used to think, what can possibly happen if sometimes I forget a cup?

A huge mistake, obviously.

Now I'm obsessive about it, I always keep a big stash.

I like to think that he came from the sea.

In a way, he did: I don't know who his father is, but almost everyone arrives in Lannisport from the sea.

But he was so beautiful when he was born: a bouncing baby boy, with a wisp of black hair on his head. I've never seen anything so perfect in my life.

In that moment I just wanted to keep him, leave everything behind, take one of those ships and just go somewhere.

I couldn't do it obviously. Even if Patrycya had let me keep him, and I never dared to ask, a brothel is not a good place to raise a child, and what else could I do to earn my pay? I didn't have any money and I doubt I could find a good man to marry.

So I left him with the Septons, at the convent on Lannisport hills. It's a nice place to grow up in, full of trees, you can even see the sea. There's a lot of other children, he shouldn't feel lonely.

I don't like the Septons. They always look bitter for some reason, and they talk about sin all the time.

Still, at least it's a respectable job. He will learn to read and write and he will have a better life than the life I could offer him.

I go and see him, when I manage: there's a wall around the convent, but there's a point with a crack, big enough the pass an arm. You can't get in or out, but you can see inside.

He has black hair and blue eyes, like me, and a flat nose I don't know who he took after.

They named him Baelor Hill, after Baelor the Blessed, which is a stupid name in my opinion.

My fault, I should have left a note with a better name.

He's five now.

He likes strawberry cakes and I always bring him some when I pass by.

When he sees me, he laughs and runs to me. I suspect that his happiness might be more due to the sweets than to the pleasure of my company, but it's all good anyway.

He's so cute, even with the shaved head and the sad brown roughspun robe that the Septons wear.

There are times in which I feel my heart might break to hold him, just once, one single time.

I never told him who I am, I think it's better this way. At least he can imagine being the son of some mysterious Lord, or of a magician from Asshai, or maybe of a pirate. And I think that's much better than knowing that your parents are a whore and someone she doesn't even remember.

For him I'm just a woman that gives him strawberry cakes and asks him a lot of questions about how he is, what he does, if they treat him well. I don't know what I could do, if I discovered they don't treat him well, but I check anyway.

Usually, he looks serene enough, even if a bit lonely, but a couple of times I saw him crying alone in a corner. I didn't manage to catch his eye; I never wanted to crash down that damn wall so much.

I said to myself that kids cry, it's only normal. He must have had a fight with some other child, or he might have been scolded for some minor prank.

At least I know he's well, I repeat to myself, I can see him growing in a way. Not all women in my situation can say the same. I'm lucky, I keep telling myself, I really am.

 

It's a calm spring night. Most of the girls are upstairs with the usual clients, so I am alone in the common room. I don't have any regular client right now. I seldom do.

I know that Patrycya is not happy about me: she says that I look presentable enough but I can't fake interest. She says that she can always tell that I'm thinking about my own business when they talk to me, or even that often she can see I'm downright bored, and that's not good.

I try as hard as I can, but apparently I don't have it in me.

I start flipping through the pages of a book, just to do something. Actually I don't know what's written in it, but there are a lot of drawings. I think it might be about Braavos, there's the image of a statue that could be the Titan. I can speak Braavosi well enough, I've had several clients from there, but obviously I can't read it.

Suddenly the door opens and I see someone coming in.

A child, I think at first, baffled.

No, not a child, I realize, watching him more closely, a dwarf.

Patrycya, the owner of the brothel, escorts him in coaxingly, as she always does when someone important comes here. They're quite comical, seen together: she's a huge woman and he's so small; she walks hastily, with small fast steps, while he has a limp, or more precisely, a swaying walk.

I hurry up to him too, and while Patrycya introduces me I lean to kiss him on the cheeks. He looks very young, but I can't understand his age exactly. It's difficult to tell without using the body growth as a reference.

He's dressed simply, but you can tell he's rich. His boots alone are worth more than I earn in a year.

He has the strangest eyes, one black and one green.

-The young Lord has come to visit us from Casterly Rock! It's such a pleasure to have you here!- chirps Patrycya, almost into raptures, and finally I understand why.

The awkward-looking boy in front of me can be only the youngest son of Lord Lannister.

I've heard about him many times, since he was born: they said he was an evil creature, with a pig's tail, horns and sharp long teeth like a boar.

The young Lannister, obviously, is not a monster.

Well, to be honest, I must say he's really ugly, poor kid: beside the startling eyes, it looks like his brow has taken all the space available on his face, and the rest of his features remain all squashed at the bottom... but surely he's not up to the legends about him.

Patrycya meanwhile keeps blabbing:- At this moment all the other girls are upstairs, but if m'lord has preferences, surely we can arrange...-. She'd rather give him another girl, not me, I know. Maybe Yoanne, who has long blonde hair and who is so intuitive she can immediately understand what a man wants. He's far too rich to waste the opportunity to secure him as a regular client.

The boy interrupts her:- No, I... she... I am... fine, thank you- then looks at me, embarrassed.

He's afraid to hurt my feelings, blissful innocence. It stands out a mile that he's never set foot in a place like this before.

Finally Patrycya decides to leave us alone, but before going away she gives me a threatening look.

The message is clear: "Don't screw up or I'll get you".

I'm about to ask him if he wants to go upstairs, but the Lannister boy sits on one of the couches and picks up the book I was flipping through earlier.

-"The worlds's sixteen wonders"- he reads -I know it!-.

I sit next to him, and to shorten the gap between us I lean towards the volume he's holding, giving him a nice view on my cleavage.

-In truth I can't read, m'lord. But the drawings are quite beautiful.- I say, caressing the back of his head. For good measure, I also lay a hand on his thigh.

He blushes, but keeps on talking:- Seven wonders are natural, while the others were built by men. There's the Titan of Braavos, the Wall, the... the roads... Valyrian roads... the Wall- he's starting to get confused, but in the end he manages to recite all sixteen of them.

-Have you ever seen any of them?- I ask.

-No. But one day I will. When I'll be sixteen I'll go to Essos with my uncle Gerion. He promised me.-

I smile:- I've always dreamed of seeing the Titan. I'd start from that one.-

-It's my favourite too!- he lights up, then he lowers his gaze on the book again- I can read it for you, if it please you. It's very interesting.-

I understand that if I wait for him to take the initiative we can stay here talking until tomorrow morning.

-It'd be nice, m'lord- I say, taking the book from his hands and closing it- But I don't think you've come here to read. We can go upstairs, we'll be more comfortable.-

The young lord looks surprised, but nods. Perhaps he expected to beat about the bush a little longer.

Patrycya always complains that I'm too straightforward. Other girls, like Yoanne, are better at guessing what clients want, what characters they have to play, like mummers or bards. I don't have this gift. Let's just say I go straight to the heart of the matter.

Anyway, I lead the boy upstairs, in my room. On the bedside table, someone left some wine with two goblets.

-Make yourself comfortable- I suggest, while I pour some wine for him. Maybe this will relax him.

He looks around the room, as if he wasn't sure about what to do. He looks at the bed, then at me, then at the rest of the room. He doesn't even know where to sit, poor kid.

I hand him the wine:- Do you want me to take off my gown, m'lord?-

His face reddens even more. He's almost crimson now. -Ah...er...I think...yes...that could be a good...- his sentence gets lost in a confused whisper, and he hides his face in a long sip of wine.

So I take off the dress with a graceful movement (it doesn't take much, really. These gowns are made to be taken off: it's almost easier to take them off than to keep them on to make them cover everything properly) and I move closer to the boy. It feels awkward to tower over him, and I kneel in front of him, so that my face stands a little lower than his. That's better.

He smiles nervously but for the first time he looks actually quite happy of being here. He strokes my hair and plays idly with a lock.

I start unbuttoning his jerkin:- Is it the first time?- I ask. Maybe talking will calm him.

-No.-

Yeah... sure.

I take off his jerkin, then his shirt. There's something weird about his body, apart from the arms that look too short for his torso. His shoulders have a bizarre angle, and his back curves unnaturally.

-How old are you, m'lord?- I ask.

-Fifteen- he thinks about it -...almost. In a couple of moons.- he adds.

Almost. He's not a child, but just barely. Maybe it'd be better if I drank some of that wine too.

-How about you?- he asks back.

-Eighteen- I answer, beaming innocently. A blatant lie. I'm six and twenty, and I don't know how long I can keep on with this farce. An year, maybe less. Soon I'll have to start to say one and twenty, and when that will be unlikely too five and twenty and then... I'd rather not think about it.

He seems to find it plausible though, so for now it's all good.

His chest is still completely hairless and smells like soap.

The idea that he bathed to come here makes me smile.

The boy takes my face between his hands and kisses me on the lips.

No, I think, he can't do this. Doesn't he know anything?

I let him go on for some moments, but when he tries to deepen the kiss I move away as gently as possible and I start to nibble at his ear.

He tries again, unsuccessfully, to kiss me on the mouth, then he backs away a little to look at me in the eyes.

-Why not?- he asks. He looks confused and hurt. There's something about his eyes that makes me uncomfortable: not the different colour, even if that's disturbing enough, but something in the stare.

It's too direct, too sincere, too pure.

Seven hells, how can I explain this without risking to offend him? He should know.

-You see...- I start- One day you will marry a beautiful young lady, and you will wrap your cloak around the shoulders. You should keep your kisses for her, not waste them here with me.-

That's the dumbest explanation I could come up with and I curse myself.

But the point is, this is not the place for kisses. It's too intimate. Kisses are for lovers, for parents, for the hands of a child stained with strawberry jam.

-But I... I want to kiss you now.- he insists.

I sigh, because I don't know what to say. I'm sorry boy, you're very sweet, but rules are rules, especially when there are so few.

Thankfully he's not stupid.

-Fine. I see.- he says after a moment – But is that... something that it's not supposed to be done – he's groping for words -with the girls... of your profession?-

Oh, my boy, there's a word to describe my profession. More than one, actually.

-Usually, no- I admit, trying to sound as gentle as possible.

He shakes his head, looking aggrieved:- I... I didn't know- he runs a hand through his hair, embarrassed, and for a moment he looks very far and melancholic -I'm sorry-.

-It makes no matter, m'lord. It was very sweet.- I lie, still smiling.

He's hesitant now:- Is there's something else that I shouldn't do?-

I shake my head:- No. You can do whatever you want. That's what I'm here for, m'lord.-

-Then... can I ask you...- again, he sounds confused. Oh dear, what can he ask that makes him so embarrassed? - Could you call me by my name? Tyrion, not my lord. Could you do that?-

-Of course, Tyrion- I lean forward to kiss him lightly on the chest, then right below his belly button. His skin is soft and clean. -Whatever you want.-

His breath grows faster, as I unfasten his breeches, then I take them off.

His legs are even more weird than his back, stunted, much more arched than they should be.

That must be why he walks in that bizarre way. But everything else is normal.

Once I've finished undressing him, we move on the bed.

I must say, he's less hasty than I thought, perhaps it's true that he's done it before: he takes his own time, feeling and caressing and especially observing my reactions, as if he was the one who should please me. That's cute, but I'm afraid he hasn't figured out how things work in a brothel yet.

I try to encourage him, but I'm very cautious, because the risk here is that he finishes before he even starts.

When he cuts the chase, in fact, everything happens very quickly, as I expected.

Afterwards, he lays still for a while, as I hear his breath against my ear slowly getting back to normal. When he raises his face and moves away, though, I realize that his eyes are swollen with tears he's trying to choke back.

-What's wrong?- I ask him, worried. I didn't have the impression it went bad. Oh no, this time Patrycya is going to kick me out for good.

He shakes his head, but doesn't answer. He just sits there and tries not to look at me.

-Is there something amiss? Tyrion?- I stretch a hand to caress his cheek and at that point he breaks down and cry.

A desperate crying, he sobs so hard that at times he can't even breathe.

I'm sorry, it's all my fault, he repeats, between one tearful gulp and the other.

I don't know what to do. I'm panicking even more than he is. Something like that has never happened to me, in more than ten years of this job, and I feel completely unprepared. Absurdly, for a moment I see a wall with a crack, too small to get on the other side.

And meanwhile, he keeps crying.

-Tyrion, tell me what's wrong, I pray- I repeat -I'm worried. Please.-

-I... I miss her so much.- he murmurs.

-Who? Who do you miss?-

Another sob, if possible even harder than the others:- Tysha.-

-Who is Tysha?-

But there's no way to get another word out of him. He just shakes his head, almost hysterically, as if the very thought was too painful to bear.

I don't know exactly what I'm supposed to do, but I pull him close and hug him, and he clings on to my shoulders as a castaway on a board in the middle of the sea, while I mutter broken words that I hope would make him feel better: no, shush, everything will be fine, it's not your fault.

He grasps me so tightly that it hurts a little, but I find I don't mind.

I don't know what happened to him, or who's Tysha, but it's clear that everything it was scarred him very deeply.

And he's still so young, so innocent... it's not fair.

As his sobs resonate in my chest as if they were mine, I find myself kissing him, on the head, on the brow, on his eyes and even on his lips. His tears taste like the sea, like salt and like the wind that blows on Lannisport hills. They taste like loneliness and desperation, and I recognise them more than I'd like to admit.

He calms himself a bit, in the end. The violent gulps turn into a soft weeping.

-I shouldn't cry- he whispers at some point.

I stroke his hair: -Why not?-

-My father would be ashamed of me.-

-Your father is not here, you can cry as long as you want.-

I feel a sad smile against my shoulder.

-You're so kind.- he says.

I sigh: -No, I'm not.-

He doesn't say anything. His breath gets more and more regular, and his heart too slows his beating to a lower pace, until I realize he's fallen asleep, exhausted, still hugging me, and with his head still plunged between my chest and my shoulder.

And while I lie there, keeping on stroking his hair even if probably he can't feel it anymore, I realize that this embrace is the most intimate thing that has happened to me in years, after I left Baelor to the Septons.

I cried for weeks, just like Tyrion, but alone, in silence, in a room very similar to this. It's a memory I try to avoid, and most of the times I manage to, but not now.

And I ask myself if in this moment I am the one comforting him, or the other way round.

 

When Tyrion wakes up, he looks disorientated and embarrassed.

I help him dress, I fasten his jerkin as I would do for a child and he lets me do it. He even looks content.

There's a sweetness in him that won't last for long. Soon his pain will turn into sadness, then into bitterness. It has already started. Poor little, ugly, sweet Tyrion.

-I should pay you now, shouldn't I?- he says suddenly, producing a small leather purse.

He pulls out a handful of coins, silver deers and golden dragons, and turns it out on the bed.

-Is it good? Is it enough? I don't know how much... how much do you... I have more, if that's not enough...- he stutters. The sight of the coins seems to startle him for some reason, and I'm afraid he's going to weep again, but he composes himself eventually.

-That's too much, a silver coin is enough, you see, like this.- I take one and I give him back the others, helping him putting them back in the purse.

Patrycya would accuse me of being stupid, but never mind, she doesn't need to know.

Tyrion greets me and then walks away. But then he thinks again, comes back and places a golden coin in my hand.

-Are you out of your mind?- I laugh -You can have all the girls here for a month, with this. Come on, it's too much.- I try to give the coin back to him.

He shrugs:- It's gift. So, if you want, perhaps you'll go and see the Titan in Braavos.-

I'm about to protest, but he stares at me intently, with that serious gaze of his, without deceit: -Please.-

So I lean forward to kiss him on the brow:- Thank you, Tyrion.-

He moves closer to kiss me on the lips, then he remembers that he can't, so eventually kisses me on the tip of the nose. This makes me giggle.

I watch him clumping away, with his queer waddling walk, and I feel I will never see him again.

 

I'm sitting next to Baelor, on a bench outside the convent.

It feels so strange not to have a wall between us. A little awkward, even.

He stares at his swinging legs, that don't touch the floor.

-How would you like to see Braavos?-

He looks at me:- What is Braavos?-

-It's a city. It's very far, on the other side of the sea.- In truth, you should circumnavigate part of Westeros, then cut via river, then sail for another bit of sea, but this doesn't seem the moment for such quibbles. -There's the statue of a giant, and many little rivers with houses built on.-

His eyes widen:- And you're going there?-

I shrug: -Maybe-

-And if you go, will you take me?- he asks. His eyes shine.

-Yes, of course I will.- I hesitate -I mean, if you want to.-

He beams.

I feel something warm spreading inside my chest.

-You will return in less then a month, begging me to take you back- Patrycya spat out when I told her I was leaving -But don't even try. I can find a hundred girls better than you. I kept you just out of pity.-

There must be something I could do in Braavos. I could work in a inn, or in a shop. I can speak Braavosi and the Common Tongue, perhaps I could work for a merchant.

I have Tyrion's coin, and I sold the few jewels I received through the years. It's enough to pay for the journey for two people, and to live there for a while. Then, who knows.

Life is too short to spend it crying in a corner, I think.

I look at the sea, where the ships keep coming and going. I've always dreamt on leaving on one.

Maybe this time I will.


End file.
